Meditations Of Commuters Saunter – Last autumnal school walk.

featured in the poetry forum December 16, 2020  :: 0 comments

Blackberry blossoms dusting silence
gently grace street-song
awaken wind whispers,
Its harmonious decent heard by strays.

Senses a tuned beyond maddening
lend an ear to delicate decorating
Imagining jam.

Here under polluted murky orange glow and hopes,
lone fresh Conker sits, gleams dreams
of sapling roots, earthen embrace.

Raven caw acknowledgment in shadows
to loping leaps of retriever bounding up
autumnal fodder, morning rituals meditate.

His golden dance in dark snapping leaf -glides
once again, whirls in between his wags,
almost the second coming if there was a first.

Padding a run-walk-pull, his own excitement exchanged,
sloth like human performs façade of ‘I’m- in- control’
look firmly knitted to greying brow.

This 6ft frame dragged as if bandit in western
again, tripping his inner nakedness over
doe-eyed pawing Conker to gutter smiles

wagging licks to air, I inhale nature’s sinew
hold gaze, my own bark back
in memory sandwiches, intact with crusts.

The coral amongst hissing bin trucks wafting casts out
the rotted canvas freedoms and
Kawasaki Z400 Zigzags its distinctive rumbling,

percussions hearts longing throttle to get there
the 4mth old giggle gurgles eyeing floating
pink tumbling her window, her world, stars twinkle
it’s 6:30am. His hand in mine. Curls, just like
first moments of newborn grasp. We wave to moon.

editors note:

Crystal confusion in a morning constitutional. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 15, 2020  :: 1 comment

First flutters, deliriously delicious. Wet.
Delusions deviously dealt, betrayal, death.
Unknown explorations, standing bare, complete self. Spring.
The deepest breath, mountains envelope, zen.
The quickening, first suckle, hand-grasp-curl, pout-lip-quiver. Milestones.
The moment vinyl turns, transporting time, rhythmic rotations. Jazz.
Muzzle, cheek, face buried deep, inhalations sweet dung hay infusions,
Toe to hoof. Momentous beats, as one, essences. Summer.
That look, doey-eyes chocolate, all seeing, head-cock, paws
mulching mud frolicking forests, rivers rush. Autumn.
Full throttle, leathers to leathers, pillion countering corners, wind-whipped
senses engulfed, sea -licks. Freedom.
One foot follows the other, imprints, waves -lapping, cast out. Swaddle Sun.
The entire journey, tasting cow, dancing flames, smelling book, supping eve. Winter.
Unknown explorations, standing bare, complete self
The deepest breath, mountains envelope. Love.

editors note:

Life loved and love lived. Yes, love! (Yes, Love!) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 8, 2019  :: 1 comment

Fragility screams, choking breath.
Etches itself, sharping as it moves
Ambiguously, freezing fight- flight
Raring itself painted gold, blue or

amber, anything to grapple on,
leaving its listeners popple bewilderment.

as the bullet kisses,
The moment enough strips bare,
as piss streams booted out by bladders,
that silence thumb- turns pages in foxholes
*Ledwidge, his pencil – did you?
Were your eyes sliced into slivers, laid out?
turned up begging to run on their stalks?
Did ears bleed to drown out – colour the sounds?


The pause before hands smashed you into wall
the moment girl is selected as woman to please
to death do they part,
The boy who loves him first steps to say I am…
the blinded footfalls passing invisible asking- can you spare?
That spotting at 10weeks, silencing quickening- gestation muted
forever in dream whispers of imagine ifs,
the cow before slaughter last lowering,
to stand face mirror, whisper I am, this is, I love you.
Waking up to face shadow huddles pointing sneers, snarling
black dog unleashed,
The moment you say goodbye,
stepping into yourself, removing fungal layers of each
Fragility scream, choking breath
Raring itself

*Ledwidge, Francis; 1891- 1917, Irish poet from Slane, Co Meath, Ireland; Killed in WW1 by a stray shell, July 31st, 1917

editors note:

Caught quivering in the spell of the spelling. – mh clay

These days

featured in the poetry forum December 4, 2018  :: 0 comments

Walk to beckon sun
proclaim all roar roaming
interlocking tongue till salivating purple
as king of king’s stuff apple
bore-less head turns on spit
knead the dirt, regurgitate butterfly,
hold up bones skinned and howl
leave your eyes
your eyes.

editors note: Eat to see, see to eat; the eyes have it. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 6, 2018  :: 0 comments

To the core of nothing and everything
Divinity of ingest cidering bees, non-angelic in waggle,
Unlike moon-shine bootlegged, no peels fermented
after the pulp revealed in revealing itself.
Eve didn’t bite, he swallowed choking swollen pride
Denying themselves true calling
Needs of blossoming to bear fruit,

to stuff skin crackled
to toffee fest, dripping on lips before hardening,
to bake to perfection in heated silence in
bitter-sweet nocturnal juice, and gorged.

editors note:

No sweeter slice than that which cuts to the core of it. Not brazen trespass, but tasty repast. – mh clay

Fox thought

featured in the poetry forum November 12, 2017  :: 1 comment

low, stay staystay – sssh scurryscurry
low, leaving earth worm screaming,
Pant pantpantpantpant pant, hold ! sniff sniffsniffing -( lisssssten)
Chest burst almost drumming drum ming, back to damp earth
sinking paws un- rooting -Bolt ! leftright rightleft,
Fucking houndsfucking houndsfucking – Still!
Hoofing thunder horning rumbles earth dust snow blanketing eyelids
What to do whatdo do dodo think thinkthink,- Oh come the rain
Mud mudmud on face sinking whiskers, roll roll zigzag zigzag,
– Bolt!

editors note:

What they do when the man shouts, “View Halloo!” – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 4, 2017  :: 0 comments

Out of
Darkness comes flight
In skies, beautiful dawn
raise head towards nearly moon,
Hush, the breeze wraps arm around
stretched palms south, holding, holding, release to
feel rushing nothing, invigorate the mind, blow creases
north, cheek to ear, feet to earth dampness falls.
Reach inside the work undone, clasp it and dance dance,
Spin like it’s your last breath, last love, last time, spin.
Turning sods smile under knocking toes reaching deep curling, release, beetle
stills, hear silence sing-songing and love doesn’t beckon this time despite clacking loud and all turn to cows, swinging udders regurgitate notes get back, get back in
time, to love and yellow boots hip-hopping the yaga monster holding hands singing Marvin Gaye. The fields part grass, lowering meadows to leave dew drop hover in her matrix reaching low aching to greet moon-shine casting shadows as curling toes fondle still, moments imprint


turning insides out facing clouds and brace, brace against the force and smile, smile to brighten decades carried in eyes that find themselves on lowering hills, swinging cows in hailing all as if last chance
last chance to embrace it all and sway as if never
out of


editors note:

Yes, take it all; as much as two hands can hold!  (Congrats to Polly, who is a featured poet at the  Blackwater Poetry Festival in County Cork, Ireland this weekend.) – mh clay

No Ordinary (Mutant Rodents of the Third kind)

featured in the poetry forum May 16, 2016  :: 0 comments

Damp earth marinated with spruce mulch, waft and console
sinking roots in waves under silence stars,
Synchronized turning bodies roll – inhale.

Ghosts of bullocks mooing and welly-boots
jump hoops in windy whiskey seas,
And I’m white horse flying, flying till
Starlings awaken with rising sun, again;
like herds of mini elephants cracking bark
bursting eves of this creaking house to life.
No ordinary,

Nestling upon nestling disperse sleep, dreamy hooves
and his shouts of ‘get off tracks, train’s coming’
as he moves in between snores then spoons,
Even in slumber he saves this stubborn soul
No ordinary man.

Heavy eyes remain
roll in lids longing to doze.

I possess no ordinary (so I’m told)
In mind, in body.
Perhaps obsessions
of marvel explain gnawing disappointing pangs felt;
it’s not Mutant Rodents of the Third kind
or meta-human left behind by old Doctor who walked these aged floors
or The Flash in bird form vastly splashing shit bombs perfectly launched
when cat leaves by back or front door,

But extraordinary feathered spite fire Starlings – the mothering fathers stealing my dreams.
Ah still, there’s always the phantom phone ringing!
No ordinary
Spine tingling chill.

editors note:

Extraordinary images to tingle ordinary spines. – mh clay

Mutterings maybe Muse

featured in the poetry forum August 12, 2015  :: 0 comments

Bluebird calls,
his raspy sultry tones,
almost teasing,
just there,
right there
Ohh there
words spin,
wink as if stars out of reach.
From dust to burning
burning deep,
burning red,
I stand meek, feet toeing frozen earth
longing for green grass,
flowing manes or just flow,
Spluttering mutters – he calls.
Stripped to inner core,
empty, half full
or momentarily sane?
only just seeing for sake of
seeing but not seeing,

Bluebird’s calling,
perched on dead wood
I write, hear
his words
necking inner voice – this voice, amongst
his whores
the barmen,
fucking madmen,
penned in his lines
couplets, verse
puffing last fags.
His gesturing wing beckons
my parched lips cradling inner wars,
pours another JD as if mothering
this poet flying half full – just,
gulping in
spinning words
spinning – trying.

editors note:

Bluebird of happiness or missing muse? Maddening for all purveyors of verse. – mh clay

From The Shoe Box

featured in the poetry forum September 16, 2014  :: 0 comments

Expired vicious sharp tongued
-still staring through the key hole,
Waiting to pounce.
Fury green mould never stood a chance,
Old hag.

You hid buried,
In depths of yellowing pages.
Amongst spit fixed stamps,
Undisturbed dust, dried flower heads,
Forgotten valentines, Seeped in black ink,
Faded slight.

Like you,
Reeked stale.
Stale in compassion;
In life
In dreams
In all less perfect,
Perfect for you.
Even from your old scrawl
My hands felt your sting,

Years of verbal lashings
Dousing in vinegar,
You left a bitter taste,
After placing your thorny crowns.
I thought only Christ haters did that.

But you a lover of the cloth!
To grottoes you flocked
On knees you rocked
Mouthing your praise,
In practice you mocked
As the cockerel crowed three times
You drove the nails into my
Cross over and over.

Now in my own glory,
I sup the finest of wines,
Diluting your bitter taste.
Queen of my throne
While you fade at the
Bottom of the forgotten box.

editors note:

A keepsake only for the sake of keeping? A lose-sake, ready for discard. – mh